Content in Poetry
Is it the shade of a willow tree, a moonlit night, or just a morsel of bread and a glass of water? Can you mend the hearts you’ve broken, can you make up for the sorrows you’ve caused? Everything you thought would never end does come to an end one day. But the real question is this: Is there an account for what has been lived? The infinity within you is your very existence—what is this world you speak of, anyway?
Izmir, a whisper rising from the frozen night of 2001... A farewell wounded by the beauty of butterflies with broken wings, separating loved ones but sending greetings to the beautiful people within. Because sometimes the deepest love does not fall silent even when saying "I don't love you anymore" three times; it only leaves behind an angry farewell to the distance, to fate, to that departing car.
Sometimes darkness doesn’t come only with the setting of the sun. The refrain “It’s grown dark out there” echoes like a pain repeated on every continent... The light has faded, the rain has fallen, the eyes are gone. Even the carnations have turned dark along with their black eyes. The windows are shattered, the hands of lovers are left empty. Darkness isn’t just outside—it’s inside, in hearts, on the roads... Everywhere.
Perhaps the woman is life's greatest contradiction. Both angel and devil, both rose and thorn, both water and fire... This poem describes all the states of woman, all her faces: She is the one who kills with her gaze, and the one who saves from the precipice. Calloused-handed workers, selfless givers with hearts of straw, sun-eyed hopes... Mothers, strangers, loves—all are women, all are life. On March 8, International Women's Day, a portrait of the infinite colors of womanhood.
Some nights, even in February's minus thirty, the heart is under a blizzard. "It's a bit complicated," he says, but it's actually very clear: Just go. I'm tired of staying open for you, I'm done standing firm for you. Like a tree whose fruit no one has eaten, whose branches have dried up, sometimes people remain that way—shivering, cold, bewildered.
Every stanza that begins with "I don't know..." expresses the helplessness of a life beyond our control. Like water flowing in the direction it must, some things are not chosen—they are simply lived. But in the final line, being able to say "thank you" even for the beauty that is not there is the deepest acceptance and maturity.
Some lines of poetry transcend the time they were written. This poem, penned on October 26, 2000, was perhaps a premonition of today. Years have passed; the words still speak from the same place, with the same serenity: You know...
Eleven people, including seven police officers and four civilians, were killed and 36 others were injured in a bomb attack that occurred in the Beyazıt district of Istanbul in the morning hours as a police vehicle was passing by.
You knock on the door with hope. The sounds from inside don't come to the door. You turn to look at your heart, searching for open doors. The day comes when other doors open. Result: Life goes on, birds fly...
They say, "Love is finding oneself in another." But in truth, "Love is thinking you've found yourself in another." This poem is for those in love.
Hope fades, your breath catches, you feel suffocated by life. You wait for a light, a sip of peace. Suddenly, rain begins to fall on the parched earth. Then a symphony of earthy scents.
Bazı duygular vardır, korkarsın açıklamaktan, dostluğunu kaybetmekten.. Bazen de çok ağır gelir duygular çıkmak için dışarı.. Evet böylesi duygularla dolu bir şiir..
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